


The One Where Gerard Is A Chef With A Very Unhandy Problem

by synonomy



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Flirting, Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Restaurants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28959858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonomy/pseuds/synonomy
Summary: "At some point you're gonna have to just admit that you want in his handyman pants."
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	The One Where Gerard Is A Chef With A Very Unhandy Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nightingveil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightingveil/gifts).



> Yes, I know the title is incredibly uncreative. I came up blank, okay?

"Four ovens, and not one of them working," Gerard sighs, leaning heavily against the counter. "Great. What did I do wrong in a past life? Must have been something really fucked up."  
  
"Maybe you beat a nun to death with a cane normally used for herding sheep," is Frank's suggestion, voice muffled from inside the oven.  
  
"Maybe," Gerard says. He feels kind of bad. That's got to be uncomfortable for him, kneeling on the hard tiles of Gerard's kitchen with basically his entire upper body shoved in there like that. Then again, the position also means Frank's ass is very pleasantly available to Gerard's eyes. Frank doesn't have the whole workman's butt crack thing going on (Gerard's not entirely sure if he finds that disappointing or not) but he does have very nice, very soft-looking pockets of smooth, clean flesh on his hips, spilling out between the bottom of his T-shirt and the waistband of those ratty old jeans he always wears. If this were one of Gerard's lame fantasies, he'd lean forwards and grab them, dig in with his thumbs until--  
  
Well, in real life Frank would probably yelp, jerk and bang his head, and then emerge from the oven and punch Gerard in the face. But that's why it's a fantasy.  
  
A metallic bang and a " _Fuck, ow!_ " brings Gerard back to the present. Gerard would laugh if he wasn't so worried. "Can you fix them?"  
  
"Can you fix my fucking head?" is Frank's disgruntled reply. He shifts around, his butt bobbing. "Jeez, Gee, when's the last time you even cleaned this shit?"  
  
Gerard shrugs, and then remembers Frank can't see him. "Whatever. Adds to the flavor."  
  
"So gross," Frank says, and then his hand appears over his shoulder. "Hand me the flashlight."  
  
Gerard squats down next to Frank's box of tools, and does. He stays down there for a moment, trying to peer into the oven. "You find the problem yet?"  
  
Frank makes a considering noise. "Well, aside from the, like, year's worth of old food splattered everywhere, I don't see anything physically wrong. And I'm betting I won't in the others, either."  
  
"You're just saying that so you won't have to look in them, too," Gerard says, a little desperately. "Come on, there's gotta be something wrong with them! Things don't just _stop working_. There has to be a reason."  
  
"You'd be surprised," Frank says, but he shifts again, goes _hmmm_. "Nah, the fact _none_ of them are working... it's gotta be an electrical thing. All of the ovens - well, I know it has four doors, but technically it's just one oven - one big machine on the same system, right?  
  
"I think so?" Gerard dithers, standing up so he can look at the machine in question, which tells him absolutely nothing. It just looks like the same piece of equipment he's been using in the same kitchen for the past two years. "I mean, I didn't install it, it was here when I bought the place, but yeah, I think so. But like - if it's electrical, why are the lights and shit still working?"  
  
"The lights run on a separate circuit," Frank explains. He grunts, and then his face appears. He has grease smeared on his cheek and bits of burnt food stuck to his hair. He grins. "If I'm right, I can fix it."  
  
"Let's hope you are right, then," Gerard says after a beat. "And, uh. You've got--" He gestures awkwardly between his own face and Frank's, which he hopes will get the message across.  
  
Frank laughs even as he scrunches up his nose. "Oh, sweet." He rubs at his face, which achieves very little except smearing the grease over his hand too. "Ugh, lovely. Hope this shit is vegetarian, at least."  
  
"Wait a sec." Gerard turns to the huge metal sink, finds a cloth and runs it under the tap, wrings it out as best he can. "Here."  
  
But Frank shakes his head when Gerard holds the cloth out for him. "Can you get it? I can't really see."  
  
Gerard mentally rushes to think of a valid reason not to, and draws a blank. "Uh, sure." He moves closer, slowly steps up into Frank's space. He tries to be clinical about it, a hand on Frank's shoulder to hold him still, thumb firm under the damp cloth, but he knows he sucks at it and he's pretty sure Frank knows it too. Frank closes his eyes when Gerard slides it across his cheek. He's stupidly pretty up close. And far away. And everywhere in between.  
  
"Gimmie your hand," Gerard says, and Frank does immediately. Gerard swallows hard and keeps his eyes on their hands, rubbing at the grease on Frank's tattooed fingers until it's gone. Frank probably could have managed that part himself, Gerard realizes, and steps back with a cough. "Done."  
  
"Thanks," Frank says easily, and swipes his hands over his jeans. "So, you know where your fusebox is?"  
  
Gerard nods, grateful of the swift moving-on. "Back here." He leads Frank out of the kitchen, into the little corridor that leads out into the alley behind the restaurant. It's not exactly tidy back here - he he has to kick a pile of empty produce boxes out of the way so Frank can get to the fusebox - but Frank is probably used to Gerard's less-than-stellar housekeeping by now. He makes an optimistic noise when he sees what he's dealing with, already digging through his tools, while Gerard kind of hovers stupidly. "Um, you want a coffee or something?"  
  
"Please," Frank says emphatically, and Gerard eagerly returns to the kitchen. He makes the coffee on autopilot, trying not to think about the feeling of _want_ in the pit of his stomach. It's always the same, even going months between seeing him. It's been this way since the first time; five hours before his very first opening and searching frantically for someone, _anyone_ who could fix the fan of a heavy duty microwave oven, and more importantly, be there in time to do so. It was Frank that came to the rescue (well, technically it was Mikey, since he's the one who brought Frank to Gerard's attention and the one who made the call, but the point still stands) which is no doubt a highly contributing factor, Gerard knows. Like, Frank saved his first night as a restaurant owner - his first night of living his lifelong dream - from being a complete disaster. He didn't have to do it, probably had something else he could have been doing, and yet he helped Gerard out anyway.  
  
Plus, he's stupidly hot. Gerard isn't surprised in the slightest he feels the way he does.  
  
Still, he doesn't want to think about it. He's not an idiot, he senses the spark between them, but Frank is the only guy he trusts with his baby: this place. He'd rather not get into anything that carries a risk of losing that.  
  
He takes Frank the coffee, sipping his own while he watches him fiddle with the fusebox, swearing occasionally. "Any joy?"  
  
"I think so," Frank says, teeth gritted. "Just gotta - _motherfuckingshit_ tits on a _stick!_ Ah - yeah, there we go. Try it now."  
  
Gerard can't help but grin, heading back into the kitchen and shutting the still-open oven door with his foot. He takes a breath, turns the dial, and after it clicks back at him reassuringly a few times, it whirs to life. Gerard whoops triumphantly, relief washing over him. "So we can open tomorrow after all!"  
  
"You're welcome," Frank says, appearing in the kitchen with a grin. He puts his toolbox on the metal counter and swings his ass up next to it, mug cradled in his hands. He shakes his head and makes negative noises when Gerard pulls out his wallet. "Gee, no, come on. It was nothing. I've only been here, like, twenty minutes."  
  
"It's three in the morning, you help me out all the time, and I'm paying you," Gerard insists.  
  
"I was awake anyway, you're a friend, and this was just a favor," Frank counters, waving away the bills Gerard thrusts at him. "Next time you want me to come unclog your toilets, _then_ you can pay me."  
  
Gerard scowls, reluctantly putting his money away. "Is there any way at all I can get you to take my money tonight?"  
  
"Nope," Frank says cheerfully. "But I'll take a grilled cheese and a beer, if it will ease your conscience."

*

  
Running a kitchen is torture. Brilliant, exhilarating torture, but torture nonetheless. Within about half an hour of the restaurant opening it will be almost too hot to stand; equipment working and flames sending steam into the air, four other highly stressed people bumbling around each other, simultaneously doing their own thing and trying to work together at the same time. Gerard's staff is small by a restaurant of this size's standards, but still, it always seems busy. Gerard owns the place - he doesn't have to be cooking, doesn't even have to be in the kitchen at all - but he wouldn't be anywhere else.  
  
"One quiche, one pasta, table twelve," Mikey says, appearing in the kitchen, clipping the relevant piece of paper to the order wire above Gerard's head. "And maybe an extra topping, if you know what I mean."  
  
"See, this is why I'm the chef and you're the waiter," Gerard says mildly, chopping asparagus.  
  
"Because I would look really stupid in that apron?"  
  
"No. Because you're a moron who couldn't handle doing any actual fucking _work_."  
  
Mikey snorts, "Bro, you have it fucking _easy_ back here. You're not the one that has to deal with these fucking people. I guarantee after five minutes you'd want to spit on their food, too."  
  
Gerard rolls his eyes. "Those people are my _customers_ , Mikey. You know, the things that give me money? As long as they're doing that, I could care less what they fucking say to me."  
  
"Sure, whatever," Mikey replies airily. "That's why you once spent all weekend in your room moping when some random dude said your pastry was too dry."  
  
"I wasn't-- that was five years ago!" Gerard splutters, but Mikey's already gone. Fucker. "One quiche, one pasta," he calls over his shoulder. "And a meat cleaver for my brother."  
  
"On it," someone calls back.

*

  
"Is there a reason every time something goes wrong here, it's the early hours?" is Frank's question.  
  
"Yes. God hates me," is Gerard's response. It's a very plausible reason, and coincidentally, nothing to do with the fact that this probably could have waited until morning. It's maybe even a likely reason, if God's still going in for that whole _lustful thoughts are bad_ thing. Frank laughs, kind of breathy and huffing due to the position he's in - half on his side and half on his back, leaning against the wall under the radiator. Gerard can just about see the edge of the guns tattoo he has on the small of his back peeking out from under the bottom of his T-shirt. Maybe God doesn't hate him after all.  
  
"Where did you even learn to do all this shit?" Gerard says then - partly to fill the pause and distract himself, but also genuinely curious. He doesn't think he's asked Frank that before. "I mean, electrics, DIY, plumbing - that's a broad range of skills."  
  
"Ah, here and there," Frank says vaguely, reaching to retrieve a wrench. "I used to hang around a lot with my dad, when he was doing stuff around the house. So I just kind of picked it up, I guess. And living on my own was good practice." His biceps flex as he twists the wrench around the pipe, knuckles whitening. "And then it was just, like, trial and error. Anything I wasn't sure about, I'd just look it up and give it a go anyway. Didn't always go to plan," he grins, "but hey, that's how you learn."  
  
"It is," Gerard agrees. He hesitates for a moment before sitting down next to Frank, cross-legged on the floor. "I remember trying to cook, like, really elaborate shit in our kitchen, when I was about fourteen or something. I figured, hey, I've got a book, what can go wrong? Just gotta follow the instructions, right?"  
  
"Oh, shit," Frank says, giggling. "What did you try and make? A fucking wedding cake or something?"  
  
"No," says Gerard, and he's giggling too, remembering. "But one time I tried to do a whole three course meal, with the most stupidly complicated stuff, making everything from fucking scratch, with ingredients I'd spent my entire allowance on, just fucking _demolishing_ the kitchen--" he has to stop then, because they're both laughing too hard. "Shit, I got in _so_ much trouble. But it was worth it."  
  
"I think it's better," Frank gets out eventually, arm working again and brow furrowing in concentration, "to be really good at just one thing. As opposed to, like, just sort-of-decent at a few things. I sometimes think I should just pick one of my things to concentrate on, except then I'd get a lot less work."  
  
"You're more than just _sort-of-decent_ , though," Gerard says, frowning. "In the past couple of years you've fixed every single thing I've thrown at you. _And_ you never let me pay you for it."  
  
"You _do_ pay me. Free food--"  
  
"Even though I want to," Gerard continues firmly. "Seriously, you've got me out of the shit so many times, Frankie. You deserve it."  
  
"Yeah, well," Frank says, eyes still on his wrench. He's blushing, Gerard realizes suddenly. The restaurant is mostly dark, pale street lights outside the windows and low light inside, doors locked and tables empty. God, it would be so _easy_. He could lean over on his knees, plant a hand either side of Frank's waist-- "There, done."  
  
"What? Oh." Frank's rolling away from the wall, gathering up his things. "Wow, that was quick. Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome," Frank says, smiling. He gets to his feet and Gerard scrambles to mirror him, feeling foolish, still sat on the floor.  
  
"Uh, I'm guessing you won't--"  
  
"No," Frank confirms, but he nods towards to the kitchen, smile growing teeth. Gerard smiles back helplessly. He is so screwed.

  
*

  
"Was Frank here last night?"  
  
"What?" Gerard says, briefly distracted from the pot in front of him. Mikey's leaning against the counter next to the stove, arms folded and eyebrow raised. "So what?"  
  
"So, if you're hitting that, can you at least do it in your own place?" Mikey says. "Not, like, where food is going to be prepared, and stuff?"  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Gerard sighs exasperatedly, turning attention back to his soup, stirring slowly. "I'm busy. Go away."  
  
"I'm serious," Mikey says, completely tonelessly. "It's seriously unhygienic. Worse than rats or roaches, even. It could get us shut down."  
  
"If _pests_ were a problem, they'd have shut us down long ago," Gerard tells his brother pointedly, sprinkling pepper. "And I'm not... _hitting that_. He was just fixing the radiator."  
  
"Okay, fine," Mikey says, stepping away from the counter and picking up his order. "But when you _do_ hit that, just make sure it's not in here, is all I'm saying. Otherwise spit on the food will be the least of your worries."  
  
"I'm not going to - god damn it." He's talking to himself again. Privately, Gerard can admit that's probably pretty fitting, since he doesn't believe himself any more, either.

  
*

  
"At some point you're gonna have to admit this doesn't actually count as payment," Gerard says.  
  
Frank grins around his mouthful of food, shaking his head. "Hell no. This shit is just too damn good. Far as I'm concerned, this is a very, _very_ acceptable method of payment." He takes another bite of his panini, closes his eyes and makes an almost comical noise of pleasure. " _Mmf_ , god."  
  
Gerard coughs, turning back to the dishes in the sink. "Sorry I couldn't whip you up something a bit more... substantial, or whatever."  
  
"Dude, no," Frank says, metal counter fucking creaking under his ass with how much he's apparently enjoying Gerard's food. "This is fucking amazing. You have to make me more of these. Like, every day. _Mmm_."  
  
Gerard is really not okay with this situation. Or maybe he's too okay with it - either way, Frank really needs to leave before Gerard does something he probably shouldn't. He concentrates on washing the dishes, trying to ignore Frank's moans from behind him. He's _got_ to be doing that on purpose. Gerard's good, but he's not _that_ good. He pretty sure he's never brought somebody to orgasm just by fucking feeding them. Unless Frank really is just that easy... unless the noises he makes in bed are on an entirely different scale. Maybe this is _reserved_ for him.  
  
God. This is all Gerard's fault. He can't even tell himself that the cracked windowpane, that's been cracked for months, really could not have waited until tomorrow. Tomorrow, when it will be daylight, and there will be other people here except for the two of them. Gerard's always been pretty good at self-denial, but even he thinks this is pushing it.  
  
"So how's Mikey?" Frank asks, pulling Gerard out of his inner turmoil. "I haven't seen him for a while."  
  
Gerard's startled into a laugh. "He's... Mikey." Frank laughs too, muffled by his food. Gerard still isn't sure he knows how the two of them even met. He thinks he can recall a story Mikey told him about being stuck in a bathroom belonging to some girl he'd hooked up with and her having to call Frank to come and rescue him, but he can't be sure. Since Mikey actually has a life outside of the restaurant, and since he's Mikey, it's hard to keep up. "Yeah. He's good, I guess. You know how he is."  
  
"I do," Frank agrees, still chuckling. "Tell him I said hi, yeah?"  
  
_Not a fat chance in hell_ , Gerard thinks. "Sure."

  
*

  
"You know he's not an idiot, right?"  
  
"Go away, Mikey."  
  
"I mean, you do realize he knows that the _totally urgent jobs_ you keep getting him over here for aren't actually that urgent, right?"  
  
"Seriously. I'm gonna count to three, and then I'm pulling your underwear over your head."  
  
"Like, you know you're gonna run out of things for him to fix eventually, right?"  
  
"One."  
  
"At some point you're gonna have to just admit that you want in his handyman pants."  
  
"Two."  
  
"Or I could tell him for you, if you want? I have his number, I could text him and tell him you need him over here immediately to fix your balls - oh, and I'm not wearing underwear, by the way."  
  
"Thr-- oh, _god!_ You suck so hard."  
  
"Table seven wants the spaghetti."

  
*

  
"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"  
  
Gerard can't believe there could possibly be worse news than what is already obvious: his women's bathroom is flooded, water is still gushing from the pipe under the third sink, and both of them are drenched from head to toe. "Fuck," he swears - loudly, making sure Frank can hear him over the sound of the water, "The good news better be that you can fix this fucking mess." He's shifting his weight from foot to foot, up on his toes like he can get away from the rapidly deepening pool on the floor. This _really_ doesn't figure into his plans. Not that Gerard even has plans - that would imply he knows what the fuck he's been doing - but if he did, this would be the furthest thing from the plan. Radiators and floorboards and piping and windowpanes and all that other bullshit is one thing, but this shit right here--?  
  
"It is, and I can," Frank replies, crouched barefoot by the sink, face screwed up against the spray of water hitting his chest. "But the bad news is: I need to go and get a special part to do it, and as we've established, shit only happens to you after midnight. Like right now. So, nowhere will be open."  
  
Gerard groans, with feeling. "So what am I supposed to do?"  
  
"We gotta temporarily turn off your water," is Frank's answer, standing up and shaking his wet hair out of his face. Wow, okay. "I'm guessing your stopcock will be under the sink in the kitchen."  
  
"My stop _what?"_ but Frank is already out of the bathroom. Gerard dithers, but it can't be more than thirty seconds later that the water flow starts to subside and Frank returns. "Wow," Gerard says out loud. "Quick thinking." Frank looks pleased. Pleased, and very, very wet. His T-shirt is plastered to his body, lines and color of his tattoos soaked darker, hair stuck to his neck and jeans sagging heavy on his hips. Gerard feels the last of his willpower dissolve, just looking at him. "Shit."  
  
"Shit," Frank agrees, and Gerard doesn't know which of them moves first, but he does know he lasts about five seconds into the kiss before he's backing Frank up against the wall. Frank goes easily - eagerly, pulling Gerard flush against him - god, he's a great kisser, deep and wet and enthusiastic, throwing his whole body into it. The couple of layers of sodden clothes between them are annoying, but Frank is warm and solid and clingy, and the former problem is easily rectified.  
  
Gerard pulls back enough to say, "We should get out of these wet clothes."  
  
Frank laughs, all low and breathy. "Smooth."  
  
"I like to think so."  
  
"How far is your place?"  
  
"Couple of blocks. Not far."  
  
"Too far," Frank declares, and pulls his T-shirt over his head by the back of the neck in one swift motion, dropping it on the floor with a heavy, squelching thump.  
  
He's fucking _covered_ in ink. Gerard had suspected, but it's nice to have proof. He can only look, mouth hanging open like an idiot. Frank grins filthily, slides a hand around the back of Gerard's neck and kisses him again, other hand creeping up under Gerard's shirt. Gerard's own hands wander of their own accord, over Frank's broad shoulders, his chest; Frank makes a low noise against Gerard's mouth when his hands reach his stomach, pulling harder at Gerard's shirt when he tucks his fingers into Frank's belt.  
  
"You too," Frank says, breathing hard, and Gerard fumbles until he can get his own shirt over his head, practically fighting with it to get the wet material to relinquish its hold on his skin. It's chilly in the bathroom, on his wet skin, but pinning Frank to the wall, pressing a thigh up between his legs until Frank groans and obediently spreads his thighs around Gerard's hips, makes his entire body flush hot. He's breathing hard against Frank's neck as he fumbles Frank's belt open with damp, clumsy fingers. He hadn't envisioned their first encounter going quite like this - had pictured something more bed-oriented and distinctly less wet - but _damn_ , this works too, he has no problem as long as he can still make Frank come.  
  
"Yeah," Frank breathes when Gerard gets a hand in his pants, and then, " _ah_ , fuck," when Gerard rubs him slowly through his wet briefs. Gerard kind of likes it, the feel of the flimsy material plastered against Frank's hard cock like that - the image in his head of how it must look, deliciously obscene. He parts his teeth against Frank's neck and bites, just a little, and Frank moans and squirms, grabbing at Gerard's shoulders, then the waistband of his jeans. "Fucker, come _on_."  
  
Gerard stills Frank's hands with his free hand, "Wait," and pushes at Frank's soaked jeans until they sag down over his ass; eases off with his thigh until he can get them all the way off, and then it really does look obscene, Frank drenched and practically naked in a public bathroom. There's ink on his legs, too, and Gerard takes a moment to look, until Frank starts to squirm again. "You're so fucking impatient," Gerard murmurs, not annoyed about that in the slightest, and drops to his knees.  
  
Frank makes a noise, half-choked. Damn, he looks good from this angle, back against the tiles and underwear bulging. All that wet, naked skin. Frank's body is perfect, Gerard thinks - lightly muscled from his work but still pleasingly soft in all the right places - waist and inked belly ridiculously tempting. He can feel Frank holding his breath as he leans in, mouths over Frank's cock through his briefs, wetting the material even more, until there really is no reason for it to still be there. He slides his hands up Frank's thighs, until he can hook his fingers over the waistband, pull them down. Frank lets out a shaky breath, "Gerard -"  
  
Gerard looks up at him, holds his eyes as he licks him, base to tip, and whatever Frank was going to say melts into a groan and a cuss. His knuckles clench against the tiles as Gerard does it again, then again. Water is soaking into the denim around Gerard's knees and shins; he's so fucking hard, himself, can't wait to get his own jeans off, but it's turning him on even more to hold off, to just use his mouth and keep his hands where they are, digging his fingertips into Frank's hips the way he's always wanted to. He swallows Frank's cock on the next stroke, right to the base, and a loud, wet slap rings out through the bathroom as Frank's palm connects with the wall. There's a bright-hot flash of pain as his other grabs a handful Gerard's hair, "Fuck, oh _fuck_."  
  
Gerard hums his approval, which only makes Frank swear some more. Gerard's good at this and he knows it, but it's nice (fucking hot) to have confirmation - to meet Frank's wild eyes and let him fuck up into his mouth, let Frank pull at his hair and watch him progressively unravel - getting more and more desperate, until his breaths are catching on these gorgeous high whimpers that can only make Gerard think about fucking him, getting Frank under him. He says Gerard's name again when he comes, thighs trembling, and Gerard can't get enough.  
  
He swallows quickly and hauls himself up, kissing Frank with a still-messy mouth. It's nasty and Frank makes a noise like he loves it, grabbing at Gerard with arms and thighs; it really isn't doing anything to keep Gerard's mind away from thoughts of taking Frank home with him, but then Frank's hand snakes down to his crotch and he can't really think past that anymore.  
  
"Get your fucking pants open, Gee," Frank growls, enthusiastically groping Gerard's dick through his jeans.  
  
"Uh," Gerard pants intelligently, brain kind of lagging behind, but between the pair of them they manage it, and then Frank's hand is on him and it's an embarrassingly short time before Gerard's sticking his face in Frank's neck again and muffling his own whimpery noises. Frank strokes him through it, whispering filthy encouragements, and kisses him through the last of the aftershocks.  
  
They sag against the wall after, breathing hard, but things get chilly pretty fast. "My place now?" Gerard mumbles.  
  
He's actually not entirely sure what Frank will say, but Frank makes an agreeable noise. "Thought you'd never ask."  
  
"I - wait. I _did_ ask," Gerard says, confused. "Like... forty minutes ago."  
  
"More like fifteen," Frank says, sniggering. "And that was after you already got me all worked up."  
  
"Did you seriously just rag on me because I made you _come too quick?"_ Gerard asks incredulously, and Frank giggles, shaking his head.  
  
"Nah. I expected that." He stretches languidly in Gerard's arms - still completely fucking naked in Gerard's flooded restaurant bathroom, soaked underwear still around his knees - apparently not a care in the world. He meets Gerard's eyes. "I've thought about this a lot."  
  
"Me too," Gerard confesses helplessly, and Frank grins.  
  
"Dunno why it took you so long."  
  
Gerard doesn't know either, really. He thought he did, but thinking about it now, the idea that he'd pass this up for reasons other than his own nerves and stupidity seems a little absurd. "At least we've figured out a suitable method of payment, now."  
  
Frank snorts, "Oh no you don't, fucker. This shit is totally on the house." Gerard laughs, and Frank kisses him, sloppy and hot, hands wandering. Wow, a few more minutes of that and Gerard could totally go again.  
  
Like he read Gerard's thoughts, Frank says, "Come on, let's go to your place and dry off. Then we can get wet again. But the fun kinda wet, this time."  
  
"You're gross."  
  
"Says you. Clean your fucking ovens."

  
*

  
The next day, Mikey greets Gerard's arrival to work with a mop and a smirk. It takes Gerard approximately four seconds to realize that his brother is an evil, evil genius.  
  
"You're fucking fired."  
  
Mikey snorts, "No, I'm not. I just cleaned your bathroom."  
  
"I don't award bonuses to employees for _cleaning up their own mess_ ," Gerard says haughtily, but Mikey's already halfway out the kitchen door. Again.  
  
"Good job I was cleaning up yours, then," he sing-songs over his shoulder, the doors swinging dramatically shut after him.  
  
"You're disgusting and I love you!" Gerard yells after him, reaching for his apron.  
  
"Love you too, bro," Mikey calls back.


End file.
